


The Reverse Reverse-Robin-Hood Job

by Lenore



Category: Stumptown (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Formalwear, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:42:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21819868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: Dex might not be much of an animal person, but when one of Portland's favorite sons, an A-list financial guru/con man, fleeces the owner of a local animal shelter, she promises to take him down, even if one of the first things Artie taught her was: never make promises.
Relationships: Miles Hoffman/Dex Parios
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	The Reverse Reverse-Robin-Hood Job

**Author's Note:**

  * For [petragem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/petragem/gifts).



> Dear Yuletide Recipient, thank you so much for the delightful prompts. I hope you enjoy the story!
> 
> Big thank you to my dear no_detective for beta reading this for me!

Dex would admit if asked that she wasn't much of an animal person. Pets were fine for other people, and if a dog or cat happened to cross her path, she might even pat it on the head. She just never wanted one of her own. 

It all went back to her childhood. In the third grade, they’d taken turns bringing Lucky, the class hamster, home over the weekend—as a lesson in responsibility or patience or whatever it was that people thought eight-year-olds needed to learn. When it was Dex’s turn, she followed the teacher’s instructions to the letter, carefully measuring out food and filling up the water dish. Despite all her care, when she excitedly scrambled out of bed on Saturday morning and rushed over to the cage, Lucky lay on his back, paws in the air, stiff as a board, having departed for the great hamster wheel in the sky sometime during the night. 

From then on, having pets just seemed like one more thing she could screw up, and who needed that?

Still, a client was a client, so when the woman who ran the Furry Friends animal shelter called in tears over some kind of problem with their fundraising, Dex offered to come right over. 

"I'm here to see Dr. Veronica Gomez," she told the receptionist at the front desk. 

A woman in a white medical coat hurried out from the back office. "Thank you for coming so quickly." 

Dr. Gomez was exactly how Dex pictured a vet; she looked both kind and studious, with glasses perched on her nose and her hair in braids, although she seemed impossibly young to have already graduated from veterinary school. 

_Or maybe I'm just getting old enough that everyone is starting to look young_ , Dex thought wryly. She plastered on what was hopefully a professional and reassuring smile. “So how can I help?" 

Dr. Gomez glanced around the crowded waiting area. “Do you mind coming into the cat room? We can talk privately there. You’re not allergic, are you?” 

"Nope, not a problem, not at all," Dex said, kind of wishing that she was allergic so she'd have a good excuse not to hang out with the cats.

There were even more of them than she expected as Dr. Gomez showed her into the room. All were doing various cat things. Some lazed around. Others climbed on an elaborate cat tree that took up much of the space. A pen full of kittens tumbled all over one another. 

"We can sit over here." 

Dr. Gomez ushered Dex to a bench, which put the kitten pen right in Dex’s line of sight. A kitten so round and fuzzy it looked like an orange tiger-striped powder puff was diligently trying to claw its way up the side of the enclosure.

"Um—"Dex began, but she kept getting distracted by the determined little cat. 

Dr. Gomez turned to look and smiled. "That's Pumpkin. She's our little rebel." 

Pumpkin mewed at the mention of her name and redoubled her efforts to escape from the pen. 

“Right. So." Dex made herself focus on the actual job at hand. "You mentioned fundraising on the phone?” 

Dr. Gomez ducked her head. "You're going to think I'm so stupid." 

"I'm not," Dex said quickly. "I won't. Seriously." 

Dr. Gomez looked up hopefully. “I've made such a bad mistake, and I don’t know how to fix it, and I heard that you help people. So I'm really hoping you can help me.” 

“What exactly happened?” 

Dr. Gomez swallowed hard. “My mom founded this shelter. That’s where I get my love of animals—from her. It was always my dream to become a vet, and when I finished my degree, I came here to work. Lately my mom has been having some health problems, so I’ve taken on more and more of the daily running of the place, including the finances. We get donations, and we’ve won a few grants, but there’s always the need for more money to help more animals. When Trevor Townsend offered to serve on the board and head up fundraising for us, I was so happy. I thought it would solve everything.” 

“Trevor Townsend?" Dex repeated, wondering why that name sounded familiar, and then it hit her. "You mean, that financial guy who's on TV sometimes and gets really loud when he talks about how investing in mutual funds is for losers?” 

Dr. Gomez nodded. “I know for a fact that some very prominent people in this town use him as a financial advisor, so I thought he’d be the perfect person to raise money for us with his contacts. He started coming to our board meetings, and he asked if he could see the books because maybe he could find ways to make our money work harder. Then he offered to take care of the finances until my mom felt well enough to start working again. I was so relieved. The business part is not my thing. Not long after I handed over the financial stuff, though, he stopped coming to board meetings, and I knew something was wrong. I called him repeatedly and left messages. So many messages. I kept trying to convince myself that he was just busy, but then I looked at our accounts.” 

“What happened?” 

“He took it all,” she said, in a small voice. “Our operating funds, our reserves, everything. I’m keeping the shelter going with my own savings, but that’s going to run out soon, and I don’t know how to tell my mom. I’ve let her down so bad. If we have to close, we’ll need to find places to take our animals, but there’s only so much shelter space in the city—” She broke off, visibly upset. 

“We’re not going to let it come to that,” Dex assured her, although this was definitely not something she should be promising. “Were you ever able to talk to Mr. Townsend about it?" 

“Since he wouldn’t call me back, I finally went to his office and waited outside until I got to talk to him. Not that it did any good.” 

"What did he say?" 

“He kept going on and on about how there’s always a risk when it comes to investing, and when you’re trying to make a big score, sometimes you take a big loss. And I’m like, ‘What are you talking about? We never said anything about investing. You were supposed to fundraise and manage the finances.’ Then he showed me this paper. He said it was a contract, and it had my signature on it, but I swear to God, I never signed anything. He said the contract spelled out all the risks of the investment and that he wasn’t responsible if it didn’t pay off, and if I tried to make trouble for him, he’d sue me, because he has a whole team of lawyers and no one was going to drag his reputation through the mud." She took a big breath. “That was yesterday. Today I called you.” 

Pumpkin mewed pitifully from where she clung to the side of the pen. Obviously it was not because the kitten understood that she was potentially facing homelessness, but that thought alone made Dex determined to give Trevor Townsend what he had coming. "I'm going to do everything I can to get the shelter's money back," she told Dr. Gomez. 

She just had to figure out how. 

* * *

Artie was not what anyone would call mentor material, but he was the closest thing Dex had to it, so her first move was to swing by to see him. 

He had his feet up on his desk as he usually did whenever she barged into his office. "Dex! Long time no see. To what do I owe the pleasure?" 

She plunked down on the chair opposite his desk. "I'd like your opinion on something." She filled him in on Dr. Gomez's case. "I need to get back the shelter's money, so how can I take this guy down?" 

Artie spent a good fifteen seconds laughing before he noticed that Dex wasn't in on the joke. "Oh wait. You're serious. Yeah. No. Not going to happen." 

"Why? Just because he's rich and connected?" 

Artie gave her a look as if to say _duh_. "His family came to Portland in a covered wagon, so not just money, but old money. He knows everybody who is anybody in this town. And you're dealing with a Reverse-Robin-Hood situation, so you also have that going against you." 

"That's not even a thing." 

"It absolutely is a thing. I'm assuming you've seen Townsend's schtick. _Don't buy index funds. That's for chumps. Give me all your money, and I'll do magic things with it_. A ponzi scheme, obviously. Only he's doing it in this evil genius kind of way that helps him keep it going. A lot of those bigwig friends of his have invested with him—hell, I know for a fact that the chief of police has—and they're all making money hand over fist. Meanwhile the little people who trust this guy, people like your client, they're the ones who get fleeced. Steal from the poor to give some to the rich while keeping most of it for yourself in the hopes that you can flee the country before the shit seriously hits the fan. Reverse Robin Hood. Evil genius." 

"So, what you're saying is that pretty much everyone knows what this guy is doing, except my client unfortunately, but because he's not ripping off, like, the mayor, he's just going to get away with it." 

Artie shrugged. "Yeah. It's disgusting, but that's the world we live in." 

"You know what's disgusting? Calling someone who steals money from an animal shelter a genius." Dex got to her feet and stomped toward the door. 

"Hey, I said evil genius!" Artie insisted hotly. "And you do not get to flounce out of here pissed at me when I'm just trying to help you." 

Dex whirled back around. "You haven't said or done one helpful thing since I got here!" 

"I'm giving you the benefit of my professional experience! Look, people don't get involved in ponzi schemes because they're innocents who have no idea what's going on. They do it because they think they're smart enough to make a shit ton of money and get out in time before it all falls apart. Greed goes before a fall." 

"It's pride that goes before a fall, and my client wasn't greedy. She just needed help and trusted the wrong person. He tricked her into giving him financial information by volunteering to help with the books, and then he used that information to steal from puppies and kittens." 

"Huh." Artie looked at her speculatively. "I would not have taken you for an animal person." 

"I'm not—" Dex sighed. "Are you going to help me or not?" 

Artie took his sweet time deciding. "Fine. I'll make a few calls, see what I can find out, but I'm not making any promises. And I hope you didn't make any promises, either, because this case is a serious long shot." 

Dex pointedly didn't answer that question. "Call me if you find out anything." 

She beat a hasty retreat, but she could still hear Artie calling after her, "Never make promises, Dex. Did I teach you nothing?" 

* * *

In the absence of other ideas about how to get started, Dex decided to do some surveillance. All she really knew about Townsend's background was that he came from one of Portland's first families and he posted the world's most obnoxious videos on YouTube. It seemed like a good idea to get a feeling for his daily routine and to find out how connected he truly was. 

She located his home address easily enough, since he lived in the family mansion that had been handed down for generations, situated in one of the city's oldest and priciest neighborhoods. She got there at the crack of dawn and parked her car just down the street from the house—a rambling Victorian Gothic confection of stonework, gabled roofs, and actual turrets. 

The wait wasn't long. At seven a.m. on the dot, the wrought iron gate to the driveway swung open, and a sleek black limousine pulled out onto the street. With a loud backfire from her car that jolted the tape deck into playing Hall & Oates' "Private Eyes," Dex set out after it. 

She expected that they'd end up at a skyscraper in downtown, wherever Townsend had his office. Instead she found herself stopping outside one of the trendy coffee shops in the Pearl where they sold $7 lattes. Townsend's driver parked and got out of the car to open the door for his boss. Dex picked up her camera and started taking pictures. Another man—white, balding, late forties, looked like an insurance salesman—came forward to shake Townsend's hand. Townsend clapped the man on the back as if they were the best of buddies, and the two headed into the coffee shop. 

The insurance salesman guy looked familiar, and Dex squinted at the pictures until she finally realized why. He was on the Portland City Council. 

It took about twenty minutes for Townsend to reemerge and get back into his limo. Dex thought for sure the next stop would be his office, but instead, they drove to an upscale gym in Northeast Portland. Townsend strolled inside, seemingly in no hurry to get on with the workday. He didn't have a gym bag, so not there to work out. Dex didn't have long to puzzle it over, because Townsend came back out with what appeared to be a smoothie in hand, in the company of someone Dex recognized right away as a former professional football player who owned a string of car dealerships in town and who had become a beloved local celebrity in hot demand to preside over ribbon-cutting ceremonies and judge beauty pageants. 

Dex hadn't progressed very far in her efforts to learn how to lip-read, but it didn't really matter. The two men had the kind of grinning, joking, guys-being-guys exchange that no doubt ended with the promise to play a round of golf soon. Then Townsend got back in his car and away they went again. 

They never actually made it to an office, but by late afternoon, they had visited an art gallery, three restaurants where Townsend had three different lunches, a barber shop, several more coffee shops, a gun range, a fancy-looking men's clothing store, and a warehouse down on the waterfront that Dex was pretty sure was owned by the mob. She didn't always witness Townsend's meetings, but she saw enough. The guy apparently spent his workdays ranging all over the city, glad-handing a variety of well-connected Portlanders—from B-list TV stars to Chamber of Commerce types to well-heeled socialites. 

With each stop, Dex grew more pissed off. Were all of Townsend's rich-and-famous clients profiting off people like Dr. Gomez? Why had Dex even doubted Artie's Reverse-Robin-Hood theory? It was a story as old as time. The most privileged felt no compunction about lying, cheating, and stealing to get even more than they already had. Hell, they felt entitled to it—and the whole system was rigged to let them get away with it. 

Dex's phone rang, and Artie's name flashed on screen. 

"I wasn't expecting to hear from you so soon," she told him. 

"Yeah, well, turns out I’m an even better investigator than I thought. Pretty amazing, right? Did you even think that was possible?" 

“Do you have an actual lead for me, or did you just call to talk about how great you are?" 

“Has anyone ever told you that patience is not your strong suit?” Artie sighed. “Fine. I found out where Townsend stashed the money.” 

“You couldn’t have just led with that?” 

“You take all the fun out of things, you know that, right? Anyway, the money is in the Caymans, which, hey, no big surprise there since that’s every dirtbag's favorite spot to park their cash. But here’s where the really good news comes in. I just happen to have the account number. I’m texting it to you now.” 

“How exactly did you happen to come by this account number? And more importantly, what am I supposed to do with it?” 

“Let’s just say that if you ever take up a life of white-collar crime don’t stiff the accountant who does your financial dirty work, because they can be vengeful SOBs. Anyway, now that you have the account number, all you need in order to move the money is the PIN. That’s a ten-digit numerical code. Find it, and you can pull a Reverse Reverse-Robin-Hood.” 

“That’s seriously not a thing.” 

Artie laughed. “It’s your thing, Dexedrine, and we both know it.” 

Dex ignored that. "Any ideas how I can go about finding the PIN?" 

"Not a one," Artie said cheerily. "But I'm sure you'll figure it out. I have faith in you." 

Dex muttered after she'd ended the call, "That makes one of us." 

She'd been sitting outside the University of Portland's physics department for the last fifteen minutes waiting for Townsend to come back out. Her foot was asleep, her back had a kink in it that resisted every effort to stretch it out, and the car definitely stank of the chalupa she'd bought for lunch. Truth be told, more surveillance wasn't likely to tell her anything she didn't already know, and just watching Townsend operate made her feel like she needed to take a bath in Lysol. But what else could she do? 

_I could call Miles_. Dex reached for her phone as the thought crossed her mind. If she told him about Dr. Gomez and Trevor Townsend, maybe he'd have some information to share, something that would point her in the right direction. 

Then again…what did Artie say? The chief of police invested with Townsend. Even if Miles wanted to help, it was hard to imagine his superiors allowing him to investigate. He might do it anyway, but did she really want to put him in that position? 

Dex hung up just as Townsend came ambling back out of the Physics building. She put her car into gear and stomped down too hard on the gas in frustration, which jolted the tape deck into playing "Heart of Glass." She let out a sigh. 

Her phone rang. It was Miles calling her back. 

"Hey." His voice was deep, like velvet in her ear, and just that one word sounded so breathtakingly intimate it gave her a warm, liquid feeling in her stomach. Since when did he affect her that way? 

_Since always_ , a little voice inside her said. A really annoying voice. 

"Sorry I missed your call," he said. "Staff meeting. So what's up?" 

Dex shook her head. "Nope. Nothing. Hm-mm." 

Miles laughed. "I guess you just called to chat then." 

She bit her lip, tempted to tell him all about her case, despite what she'd just decided. The problem was, Artie might be annoying, but he mostly got her right. The Reverse Reverse-Robin-Hood idea was totally her thing. If against all odds, she somehow got her hands on that PIN number, she could give back the money to the animal shelter. They wouldn't go bankrupt waiting for the slow, unreliable gears of justice to grind out restitution. 

She wouldn't want to stop there either, not when she could give back all the money to all the victims. None of this was strictly legal, she was guessing. At the very least, it wasn't following proper procedure. 

A picture flashed through her head, the inside of an interrogation room at police headquarters, the betrayed expression on Miles' face when he confronted her about adding Liz's name to the background check list. _It's a felony. It carries 5 years. You used me._

Dex didn't want to use him, and she definitely wasn't going to make him complicit in anything she ended up doing. 

"I butt dialed you," she told him. 

Miles laughed again. "Okay, well, I'm glad your butt called me, because I was going to call you. What are you doing tonight? I was hoping you might want to—" 

"Nope," she said, too quickly. "Can't make it. Not tonight." 

Her poker face was nonexistent. If she wanted to keep him out of this Townsend thing, she was going to have to avoid him. Just for a little while. 

"Oh." He sounded disappointed, which made her feel like a jerk. "Can't I even tell you what I had in mind? Because I really think you might be interested in—" 

"Sorry. Got to go. On a job. Talk later." She ended the call before Miles could get in another word.

"Focus," she told herself, gripping the wheel and staring straight at Townsend's car. 

She'd thought maybe Townsend might finally head home, but no such luck. The car was headed in the opposite direction. Was she just going to keep following along on this wild goose chase? What else could she do? 

Typically, when the going got tough, Dex got herself a drink—or two or three or, really, best not to put a number on it. Anyway, she found some of her best ideas at the bottom of a tequila bottle. That was her story, and she was sticking with it. Technically Dex wasn't entirely over Grey putting Ansel in danger, but the lure of free booze remained strong. 

_Fuck it_ , she thought, making a sudden U-turn in the middle of the road, flipping off the irate driver who honked his disgust at her sudden change of plans. 

If Grey was surprised to see her, he kept it to himself. Maybe she didn't know him as well as she'd thought, but he could definitely read her mood with a glance. He sat a bottle of something cheap and strong on the bar in front of her. 

"Your case is going well, I take it," he said dryly as she downed two quick shots in succession. 

Dex scrubbed a hand over her face. "I need to get close to Trevor Townsend. Any thoughts on how I can do it?" 

Grey tilted his head thoughtfully. "Well, I guess you could always get yourself invited to the Peacock Ball." At her blank look, he said, "Townsend is hosting it this year at the family manse." 

"Peacock Ball?" she said, still no clue what he was talking about. 

"The big annual event that all the fancy people in town go to? How long exactly have you lived in Portland?" 

She ignored this insult to her local knowledge. "Too bad it's not at his office. That's where I really need to get into." 

"He has his office at his house," Ansel piped up from the other side of the bar where he was polishing glasses. 

"How do you know that?" Dex asked, starting to feel like maybe she really did need to brush up on her local knowledge. 

"Saw it on Portland Pads." Ansel never missed an episode of the city's answer to MTV Cribs. "Here, I'll show you." He pulled out his phone, tapped away, and handed it over. 

The segment started with beauty shots of the mansion's exterior, the camera giving the perspective of walking along the front path, up a stately staircase to the main entrance. Townsend opened the door to the camera crew with a big, plastic smile and swept out his arm to invite them inside. Even without the sound on, everything about him practically screamed, _I'm an asshole who rips off people who help defenseless animals_. 

Dex didn't know if it was the producer's idea or Townsend's to show off every inch of the house, but the tour dragged on and on and on and on: through mahogany-paneled room after mahogany-paneled room, into a kitchen as large as the entire downstairs of Dex and Ansel's house, past a lavish powder room with crystal chandelier, and even up a narrow back staircase that had clearly been designed for the hired help. She was especially glad she had the sound off during that last bit. 

"Are you sure—"Dex began. 

"Just wait," Ansel said. 

At the top of the servants’ stairs, Townsend paused outside the first door on the left, as if building up to a big moment, and at last he swung the door open to reveal a home office lined with polished wooden bookshelves and dominated by an enormous, intricately carved antique desk. Dex sat up straighter. The crew moved further into the room, and she squinted at the screen. She could make out drawers with locks on the desk and file drawers built into the bookshelves, also with locks. Pretty good hiding places. 

"Can you send me that link?" she asked. "And do we know when this Peacock Ball thing-y takes place?" 

"Tonight," Ansel and Grey said in unison. 

"Fuck," Dex muttered under her breath. 

She downed one more shot and slid off the barstool. 

Grey called after her, "If you're crashing the ball, you're going to need a dress." 

Dex stopped in her tracks. "Fuck," she said out loud. 

* * *

Four torturous hours later Dex made her way home with tired feet, a shopping bag full of stuff that cost about three times what her car had, more makeup on her face than she'd ever worn in her life, and hair carefully lacquered into a chignon that the stylist insisted was more sophisticated than a French twist, as if Dex could tell one from the other. 

For the record, she didn't believe in hell—other than the manmade variety—because if a demon-laced, brimstone-filled pit of judgment actually existed then that would mean there was some sort of justice in the universe, and she'd never seen the least bit of evidence of that. Just for argument's sake, though, if there were a hell, she had no doubt it looked exactly like that department store. 

Dex had wandered around for at least half an hour without even being able to find the evening gowns before throwing herself on the mercy of the next sales clerk to cross her path. 

When she'd explained she needed to buy a dress for the Peacock Ball, the clerk had gone wide-eyed with disbelief. "And you waited until the day of?" She flicked a quick, assessing gaze at Dex. "Okay, yeah, you totally did. So let's get you ready then." 

Dex honestly thought they were done after they hit the evening wear, lingerie, shoe, and accessories departments, but the clerk had insisted on walking her down to the in-store salon. 

"You're going to need help with hair and makeup," the woman said. 

"I can—" 

The clerk shook her head definitively. "You really can't." 

On the way home, Dex had stopped off for something truly essential. She pulled the fifth of Jack out of its brown paper bag and sat it on the kitchen table. She'd come back for some much-needed Dutch courage before she went party crashing, but first things first. She had to get dressed. 

She wrangled the shopping bags upstairs to her room, stripped off everything she had on, and started layering on the stuff the sales clerk had foisted on her. The bra and panties were such filmy little nothings she couldn't believe she'd spent a month's worth of booze money on them. Half way through shimmying into the Spanx, she seriously considered taking the thing off and shooting it with her gun, because frankly, it deserved to die. 

The dress wasn't much better, a slinky number with a hard-to-reach zipper that was no doubt meant to be done up by a lover. Dex quickly pushed that thought to the back of her mind and finished twisting and contorting until she'd managed to zip it all the way up by herself. She slipped on the pair of heels with the vague hope that maybe she wouldn't break her neck in them. Not that she was all that optimistic about it. 

What did it say that she felt more naked in these clothes than she had just a few minutes ago when she was wearing nothing at all? A glance in the mirror showed her someone she didn't recognize. Or at least, someone she hadn't seen for a long, long time. The last time she had been even close to this dressed up was high school. Senior prom. The first and only time she and Benny had attended to a school dance. 

Benny had been gone a long time now, but he never felt very far away, and Dex's ability to stay firmly rooted in the present was definitely the worse for wear after two tours in Afghanistan. It was all too easy to slip sideways through time, to feel Benny beside her again, the reassuring solidity of him, the warmth of his hand holding hers. 

Dex had saved up for her prom dress, a short little number with a poofy skirt, fitted waist, and an off-the-shoulder bodice, very much the style of the times. Benny came to get her in his mother's pickup truck, which he must have taken without asking because Dex couldn't imagine Sue Lynn letting him borrow it for that purpose. The dance was held in the gym, bedecked with white Christmas lights and paper streamers. Hardly fancy, but in the eyes of her seventeen-year-old self, it was magical. 

They went straight to the dance floor as soon as they got there. The song playing was fuzzy, lost in Dex's memory, but she remembered so clearly the warmth of Benny's body pressed close, his arms wrapped around her waist. He beamed at her, the sweet smile that showed his dimples, the smile she'd loved from the first moment she met him. 

"What?" she asked, when he kept staring at her. 

He held her gaze. "You clean up pretty nice." 

She rolled her eyes, but inside she felt giddy with possibilities, safe and loved. 

The past fell away, and the Dex who stared back at her in the mirror was nothing like past-Dex who innocently believed she had so much to look forward to. Good thing present-Dex had a bottle of Jack downstairs to help her put the stuff she didn't like to think about back in the locked box where she preferred to keep it. 

She could have gotten a shot glass out of the cupboard, but why bother? She took a long swig straight out of the bottle, then another. Those first two swallows were just a warm-up—she didn't even really feel them—but the third one, that did the trick. Heat seeped through her veins, evening her out, grounding her in the here and now. 

She let out her breath. "All right, Pumpkin. Let's go save your shelter." 

* * *

Dex would not have predicted that the ridiculous heels she'd been talked into buying might prove useful for something, but they actually became her ticket into the party. Her original plan had been to park down the block so no one saw her car (or heard the tape deck), blend into the other partygoers, and walk through the front door with her head held high as if she completely belonged there. 

The plan took a slight detour when she turned an ankle on the walkway leading up to the front stairs. 

"Son of a—" Dex muttered under her breath. 

"Are you all right?" An elegant silver-haired man stopped to check on her. "This slate path is attractive but terribly uneven and rather slippery. It's a wonder more people haven't injured themselves. I'll have a word with Trevor about it. In the meanwhile," he offered his arm, "let me help you inside." 

Although he was a good forty years older than she was, Dex took his arm, did her best to look like a cozy couple for the benefit of the security guy at the door, and breezed right on through. Inside, she murmured a quick thank-you and slipped away before her fake date could start asking questions. 

She'd watched the video of the mansion tour—honestly, she'd lost count of how many times, and she thought she'd have no trouble finding her way to the home office. The problem was, the place was decorated for the party within an inch of its life, crowded, and even more ostentatious in person, and that made it surprisingly hard to get her bearings. She grabbed a flute of champagne off a circulating tray while she surreptitiously studied the layout. Just to blend in with the partygoers. Keep her cover. It was her job to drink that champagne. 

Large rooms opened off either side of the main entryway. The main staircase sat in the center of the hall, roped off for the event. From the video, Dex knew there should be a corridor running straight back to the kitchen and then a narrow hallway branching off that led to the servants’ stairs. The main staircase was so massive, though, that she couldn't really see anything behind it. 

Luckily, Townsend chose that moment to make his grand entrance, materializing from the very corridor that Dex was searching for. He stopped every few feet to shake a hand and boom out a greeting as if he'd just been reunited with a long lost friend. Up close, he was even more smug and insufferable than he'd appeared from a distance. 

The crowd gave him the rock star treatment, swirling around him and following in his wake as he moved toward the main room where a dais had been set up. In a matter of seconds, Dex was the only person left in the entry hall. She started drifting back toward the corridor, keeping an eye out for security. When the coast seemed clear, she made a break for it. 

Up ahead, she could hear a woman's voice coming from the kitchen and guessed it must be the event planner. "What are you doing just standing around? Disperse! The guests are throwing back the booze like they've never seen an open bar before. Get out there with those hors d'oeuvres, or we're going to have people throwing up in the antique vases before the end of the evening."

Dex just managed to jump behind a potted palm before a stream of waiters came scurrying out of the kitchen loaded down with trays of food, followed by the harried event planner. Against all odds, none of them noticed Dex there amid the palm fronds. She hurried on down the corridor until she came to the servants’ stairs at last. In the interest of speed, being quiet, and not turning any more ankles, she took off her heels and crept up to the second story. 

She stopped outside the office door and pressed her ear to it, listening for any noises coming from inside, but there was complete silence. The tiny evening bag she carried was at least large enough to hold her favorite lock pick. She set to work, only to realize that the door wasn't even locked. With a quick glance around to make sure no one was coming, she let herself inside. 

Townsend's office was just the way it had appeared in the video—except that the extreme megalomania had been edited out for entertainment purposes. A life-size cardboard cutout of Townsend took up one corner. An entire wall was dedicated to photos of the guy with various famous people, including one in which he was shaking hands with the current president. Dex rolled her eyes and headed for the desk. 

The desk wasn't just tidy; it was pristine, as if it had never been used. There wasn't a single sheet of paper or file folder to be seen, although a glass paperweight with a picture of Townsend's smug, smiling face in it was prominently displayed, as if it were a prized possession. Because of course it would be. 

Dex methodically started going through drawers, and by the second one, it was clear that something was very wrong here. The desk was completely empty, not even a stray Sharpie or orphaned paperclip. She turned her attention to the bookshelves. The hodgepodge of books— _National Audubon Society Field Guide to Insects and Spiders of North America_ , an assortment of Zane Grey novels, cookbooks with stained covers, _The Knitter’s Guide to Sweater Design_ —seemed as if they'd been bought simply to fill up the shelves with hard cover volumes. There wasn't a single folder in any of the file drawers. 

This whole thing was just for show, window-dressing for the scam. Townsend didn't do any actual work in this office. Dex wasn't going to find the PIN conveniently hidden among the non-existent paperwork. It had always been a long shot, but somehow that didn't make the disappointment any less crushing. How was she going to break the bad news to Dr. Gomez? What was going to happen to Pumpkin and all the other animals at Furry Friends? 

She let out a sigh. There was no reason to linger. That would only get her caught. She cracked the door, checked to make sure the hallway was clear, and started to go, only to dart back inside on impulse. Swiping the hideous, prized paperweight from Townsend's desk and stuffing it into her purse was totally petty, Dex knew, but if she couldn't get justice for Townsend's victims, she could at least screw with his head a little. Never let it be said that Dex Parios was above petty fuckery, because she really, really wasn't. 

She managed to get down the steps, squeeze into her shoes, and start back along the corridor before colliding nearly head on with the event planner. 

"Sorry, so sorry," Dex muttered, trying to slip past the woman. 

The woman wasn't budging, though. "You're not supposed to be back here." 

"Yeah. Sorry. I just—" Dex plastered on a ditzy smile. "Where's the ladies room? I'm so turned around I have no idea where I am." 

This seemed like a perfectly reasonable excuse to Dex, but it didn't stop the woman from frowning at her doubtfully. "I'm sorry, who are you? I know most everyone on the guest list, so you must be a plus one. Who are you here with?" 

"Um—" Dex stalled, really wishing she'd gotten the name of the older gentleman who had helped her into the party. 

"Oh, there you are," said a familiar voice. 

Dex tried not to stare stupidly as Miles came striding down the hallway, but 1) he was the last person she expected to see tonight and 2) formal wear was totally his friend. The jacket hugged his shoulders lovingly, making them look extra broad. The pants were doing really nice things for his thighs. And the crisp white shirt—well, Dex had always been a fool for that. 

"Did you get lost again?" Miles asked Dex and then confided to the event planner, "She has the worst sense of direction." 

__"I do," Dex said, shaking her head sadly. "I just—zig when I'm supposed to zag."_ _

__"Detective Miles Hoffman." He held out his hand to shake. "I'm representing the Police Benevolent Fund, and this is my date, Dex Parios. It's a wonderful party. You've done an amazing job."_ _

__Dex piped up. "Yeah, the food is—" She mimed a chef's kiss. "I mean, who even cares that there's an open bar?"_ _

__"Really?" the woman said, all traces of suspicion now completely gone. "Well, I'm glad you're enjoying it."_ _

__"Speaking of which, we should probably get back to it," Miles said to Dex._ _

__She nodded along. "Absolutely. Let's—definitely go do that."_ _

__As soon as they were out of earshot, Miles said, "You're welcome."_ _

__"I totally had that handled," Dex insisted, which earned her a skeptical face. "What are you doing here anyway?"_ _

__"I could ask you the same thing. And for the record, this is what I was trying to say when you didn't want to listen."_ _

__"You were trying to invite me to the social event of the year six hours before it started?" Dex asked, offended despite herself._ _

__"That's when I got the assignment. It seemed like the kind of case you might want in on."_ _

__Dex stared at him in surprise. "There's an official investigation into Townsend?"_ _

__"You thought the Portland PD was just going to ignore an obvious ponzi scheme going on in our jurisdiction?"_ _

__She shrugged. "I heard the chief of police is pretty good buddies with Townsend."_ _

__Miles hesitated. "I probably shouldn't tell you this—no, I definitely shouldn't, but I'm going to anyway. I'm on loan to Internal Affairs tonight. They've been investigating for months. If we find the chief has been protecting Townsend, he won't be the chief for much longer."_ _

__"How's it going so far?"_ _

__"Not that great. The people who have made money with Townsend have no interest in helping us, and the people he's swindled either don't have any hard evidence or don't trust us enough to cooperate. I don't suppose you want to tell me about your client?"_ _

__Dex shook her head. "Nope. If my client wanted to go to the police, they would have done it already."_ _

__"Then how about telling me what you found in Townsend's office? Don't bother denying that's why you're here. I know you too well."_ _

__Dex wasn't sure how she felt about that last bit, but it seemed pointless to pretend he wasn't right about what she'd been doing. "I found absolutely nothing. No papers. No files. No computer. Just a bunch of random books that could have come from Goodwill. Complete waste of time."_ _

__"So what are you going to do next?"_ _

__Dex shook her head. "No idea."_ _

__"Well, just so the evening's not a complete bust, how about it?” Miles nodded toward the dance floor._ _

__"You want to dance?" Dex said, as if she couldn't possibly have understood him correctly._ _

__He grinned and took her hand. "Come on."_ _

__It had been a long time since Dex danced—at least since she'd danced like this, the warm, close press of bodies, the slow, intimate sway to music. Miles was good at it, not surprisingly, graceful and sure in his movements, but he wasn't bossy about leading because he did understand her well._ _

__"You know, you could have told me what you were working on," he said. "I would have helped if I could."_ _

__Dex shook her head. "No, I couldn't, not when I was planning to break and enter, not without making you complicit. I—look, you know I have a bad habit of learning my lessons the hard way, but I do learn them." She considered that a moment. "Well, sometimes. When it's important."_ _

__Miles laughed softly, the puff of his breath warm against her temple. His hand rested lightly against her back. The fabric of her dress was so thin it was as if he were touching bare skin. That made her think about later, when he would hopefully take her back to his place and they could throw their nice clothes on the floor and it was just bare skin everywhere. She made a little noise in the back of her throat, and Miles seemed to understand exactly what that meant, because he pulled her even closer and pressed a kiss to her throat._ _

__The song ended, and they reluctantly pulled back from each other. Miles smiled a soft, fond little smile at her._ _

__"What?" she asked._ _

__He tucked a stray strand of hair that had pulled loose from her chignon behind her ear. "You clean up really nice, you know that?"_ _

__Some triggers were predictable—concussive noises, screams, anything that sounded like gunfire—and then there were triggers like this one. It totally blindsided her. One moment she was fully present. The next she was caught between now and then, between the mansion's ballroom and her old high school gym, Miles' smile giving way to Benny's dimpled grin. She just kept sliding and ended up where she always did: on a Kabul street amid the chaos and carnage, Benny gone and never coming back, and all of it her fault._ _

__"Dex?" Miles said uncertainly._ _

__She didn't say anything. She couldn't. The stench of charred flesh filled her nose, and she could feel the singe of fire on her skin. The walls were closing in, and she couldn't breathe. She had to get out of there._ _

__"Wait. What did I say?" Miles' bewildered voice floated after her. "Dex."_ _

__But she couldn't stay, couldn't stop, not even for him._ _

* * *

__Dex didn't remember anything about the trip home. Just suddenly she was standing in her own foyer, gulping down breaths of air, focusing on the familiar smell of home while she waited for her heart to stop hammering in her chest. Her senses were still on high alert, and it was just instinct to scan the house for any telltale noises that didn't belong, any signs that something wasn't right. But there was nothing out of place, just the late-night quiet that Dex knew so well, when Ansel was sleeping peacefully in his bed and she was still awake, walking the perimeter of their house, keeping watch over her own little corner of the world._ _

__There was a fifth of Jack waiting for her on the kitchen table, she knew, but first, the clothes had to go. She struggled with the zipper to the dress and shimmied out of it, threw off the heels, peeled off the Spanx, and left everything where it fell. It was a relief to stand at her kitchen table in the middle of the night in her fancy underwear tilting back the bottle of bourbon. At least she felt like her present-day self again, the heat of the booze spreading through her, bringing much-needed numbness along with it._ _

__Her respite didn't last long. A soft knock came at the door. It could only be Miles._ _

__When she opened the door, there he stood, tie loose, jacket slung over his shoulder. He eyed her with concern. "Hey, Dex. Can I come in?"_ _

__She let him inside and headed back to her booze in the kitchen._ _

__"Are you all right?" he asked, following her._ _

__Dex shrugged and took another hit off the bottle._ _

__He moved in closer. "You know you can talk to me, right?" His voice was low and gentle. "About what happened tonight. Or anything else. I care about you. I want to hear anything you want to tell me."_ _

__She appreciated that—she really did—but there were things she could never say, because they were the government's secrets and not hers to tell, or because to wrap all that old pain in words would bring it too close and she couldn't stand it. Anyway, she didn't want to talk right now. What she needed was to lose herself in something. In someone._ _

__No. Not someone. Miles._ _

__She threw herself at him, knocking over a chair, trying to climb him, get inside his clothes, graceless and needy. He just barely managed to keep them both from falling over, supporting her weight with a hand beneath her butt. She wasn't helping the effort, squirming and trying to get closer, kissing him in a frantic flurry anywhere she could reach bare skin._ _

__"Dex," he said, breathing raggedly. "Are you sure you don't want to talk instead?"_ _

__She had never been surer of anything in her life._ _

__They crept upstairs as quietly as they could so they didn't wake Ansel. Dex kept a death grip on Miles' hand, not even sure why, maybe in case he decided to go back downstairs and insist they have a conversation like responsible adults instead of having sex. From the look in his eyes, though—intense and hungry and focused hotly on her—this was an unnecessary precaution._ _

__In her room, Dex quickly added Miles' clothes to a few days' worth of her own castoffs already littering the rug. What was it about throwing eveningwear on the floor that was so satisfying? Something to think about another time._ _

__Miles took care of her clothes, what was left of them. He went still, staring as if he'd never seen her naked body before, his chest rising and falling with his quickened breath._ _

__"Dex," he said softly, almost helplessly._ _

__She fell into him, kissing hungrily, arms going around his neck, scrambling to get as close as she could. His hands slid up and down her back, his fingers catching on her bare skin, every touch leaving her breathless. It had always been like this, from the very beginning. There was a simmering charge between them, and any glance, any stray word, the merest brush of their fingers could light the spark._ _

__Miles took a step backward, pulling her with him, and they tumbled onto the bed, tangling their bodies together, still kissing. He stroked his thumb along her hairline and pulled back to look at her, his expression piercingly tender. Most of the time, Dex had sex like she downed a drink, with the desperate need to blur her own edges, and it didn't much matter which bottle or whose body. But as they began to move together, she felt seen, known, not blurry in the slightest._ _

* * *

__In the morning, the buzz of a phone jolted Dex awake way too early, the sky mostly still dark outside. Miles let out a groan and burrowed closer against her, as if determined to ignore the noise and go back to sleep._ _

__"Is that yours or mine?" she asked, voice rough._ _

__He sighed, rolled over on his side to check his phone on the nightstand, and abruptly sat up, sounding disconcertingly alert as he answered. "Hey, Lieutenant."_ _

__Dex could hear the vague tinny sound of the voice on the phone, but she couldn't make out anything that was said. Miles' side of the conversation consisted mostly of "mm-hmm."_ _

__"What?" Dex asked when he ended the call._ _

__He turned to look at her. "The FBI arrested Townsend this morning on money laundering charges."_ _

__It wasn't what she'd expected to hear, but it did shed new light on that circuitous trip to visit local businesses. Honestly, if you fancied yourself a master of the universe who could do whatever you wanted and get away with it, why would you stop at just one kind of crime?_ _

__"I need to go," Miles said, apologetically._ _

__He searched around for his clothes and pulled them on. Dex blinked at the sight of him in his rumpled, day-old tux and no-longer-crisp white shirt. Somehow he was even hotter like this than he had been the night before. She had the very strong desire to take back off all the clothes he'd just put on._ _

__Miles leaned down to kiss her. "The lieutenant is waiting for me, so hold onto that thought." He cupped her face in his hand and looked her in the eye. "And just so you know, the offer to listen is still on the table, whenever you want it."_ _

__Dex nodded and kissed him again. After he'd gone, she lay back against the pillows and stared thoughtfully up at the ceiling. She couldn't guarantee that she'd ever take Miles up on his offer, but she also didn't reject the idea straight out of hand. For her, that seemed like progress._ _

__When she woke up again, the sun was falling full slant across her bed, which meant it was late morning, which meant—she sat bolt upright. She needed to drive Ansel to work. The clothes she’d worn two days ago were conveniently still lying there on the floor, and she scrambled to get dressed._ _

__Downstairs, Ansel stood in the foyer, jacket already on._ _

__“Sorry, sorry,” Dex said, as she came racing down the steps._ _

__“Grey is coming to pick me up,” he said._ _

__Dex skidded to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, slightly out of breath. “Oh. Okay.”_ _

__Ansel looked pointedly down at the floor, where Dex’s party clothes still lay scattered._ _

__“Uh, yeah, I was working last night.”_ _

__He made a skeptical face. “I guess that’s why I saw Detective Hoffman sneaking out of here in a tux this morning."_ _

__“Um,” she said stupidly._ _

__“See you later, Dex. I left you coffee.”_ _

__She padded on into the kitchen after Ansel had gone. Of course, he’d left her coffee, because he was the best brother ever. She slumped down at the table, huddled over her mug, slurping down scalding black liquid. Her evening bag lay on the tabletop where she’d dropped it last night. She noticed a big bulge in it, and she sat there staring at it, completely befuddled. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember what she’d put—_ _

__The stupid paperweight she’d snatched from Townsend. How could she have forgotten?_ _

__It was even tackier than she remembered, with Townsend’s smug face beaming up at her. She turned it over in her hands. There was a sticker on the bottom with a barcode. God, did he actually sell these things? Who would possibly buy one? She squinted at the sticker. The barcode had a string of numbers below it. She counted. It was a ten-digit number._ _

__Could it really be that simple?_ _

__Dex scrambled to get her computer and pulled up the Cayman bank's website. She typed in the account number she'd gotten from Artie and then the barcode digits, held her breath, and hit enter. The page took forever to load, and she expected an error message to appear any moment telling her that the login information she had entered was incorrect._ _

__Instead, she found herself staring at the account summary page. All that stolen money—she was looking right at it._ _

__For a moment, she couldn't breathe. She'd wanted to find it, and she'd promised to find it, but the fact that she'd actually succeeded…she almost didn't know what to do with that. Except that she did. There had never really been any question about it._ _

__She reached for her phone and called Artie. "Do you think your pissed-off accountant friend might have records on who lost money to Townsend? And any thoughts on how I can return it without getting caught? Or getting anyone on the wrong side of the IRS?"_ _

__"Attagirl, Dexedrine. I knew you could do it. Giving the rich who steal from the poor a boot in the ass is totally your brand." He sounded almost proud, which was just a weird experience. "I'll give the accountant a buzz and let you know what he says. In the meanwhile, do me a favor? Change the PIN on the account, so the dirtbag can't move the money while we're figuring out all this shit."_ _

__"Already on it," Dex said, typing in a new code._ _

__She hung up, poured herself another cup of coffee, and leaned back in her chair. If there was anything she'd learned in life, it was that some things were irrevocable. Some decisions couldn't be taken back. Some mistakes could never be fixed._ _

__But today, for once, things actually worked out. The good guys got a rare victory. Justice, however unconventional, was going to be served._ _

__That was a pretty good day as far as Dex was concerned, and she was going to take a moment to savor it._ _


End file.
